


The Storyteller and the Dragon

by AngeNoir



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - Magical creatures, Alternate Universe, Dragons, Fake Character Death, Gen, Implied Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:29:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, he introduces himself as. Not as Sherlock of the Holms Clan, but a human identity, and John wondered what that said about Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storyteller and the Dragon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [You_Light_The_Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/gifts), [tumblr user ms-notebook](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tumblr+user+ms-notebook).



> I hope this is kinda on point with what you wanted? I know it's choppy, but I couldn't figure out how to skim through each episode without making this a lot longer than it turned out. o.o;; I hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> Full prompt is in the endnotes.

 

_“Hullo. Are you ready for the story?”_

*

It started almost six months ago, when John Watson, who was not particularly pleased to be picked up by a fashionably dressed young lady outside the local Tesco, was taken into a black car. He didn’t know her, he didn’t particularly want to know her, he wanted to take himself back to his barren flat and contemplate the uselessness of a Nullifier in the middle of civilian London.

But it was hard to argue with someone who could so obviously manifest Shades from every camera that was pointed at you.

He sat in the back of the car, watching as the woman’s fingers flew over the keyboard of her phone, and he wondered what she was. Obviously, she was employed by the magic-user who manifested those Shades, and he couldn’t imagine a magic-user, especially one so powerful that he could manifest Shades in broad daylight, employing weak mundanes or weak supernaturals. Most likely, this woman was another Null (mundanes, or humans like himself, who could only manifest one type of magic: becoming a magical black hole that nullified all magical effects if they concentrated). Or perhaps she was one of the greater magicians, a sorceress or arithmancer, a shape-shifter or an elementalist.

“Mind telling me where we’re going?” he finally asked, and she smiled to her phone and said not a word.

The car stopped in front of a tall building in a posh district. Without saying a word, the woman gestured to the door.

John debated just sitting in the car until something was explained, but he had milk in these grocery bags and he’d rather not have it spoil. With a small sigh, he stood up, wincing at the pull in his leg, the ache in his upper shoulder, and stepped out of the car and up to the doorway, his cane clacking on the pavement with each step.

A butler let him in, and he had time to marvel at the luxurious surroundings as he was placed in a small foyer and left to his own devices. There was silver and gold, rich tapestries and thick carpets, uniquely crafted furniture and sparkling jewels everywhere. John moved about the room, feeling the phantom pain crawling up his thigh as he forced his leg to function. The metal prosthetic was supposed to be linked directly into his nervous system; there should be no delay, no ‘limp’. His therapist simply stated that he needed to adjust to the weight, that it was natural for him to drag his leg a bit and feel pain if he put too much weight on the artificial limb, that his cane would help him through the adjustment period. John didn’t question it – didn’t question a lot, anymore.

“Good afternoon.”

John turned around and saw an older man in the doorway, dressed in an expensive shoot and shoes, hands sedately at his sides. His eyes were black, glittering almost, and he was unnaturally pale and elegant, even with a slight paunch that was neatly hidden by the cut of the suit. John didn’t respond to the greeting – after all, this man had had _him_ kidnapped, practically, and not only that but this man was a powerful enough magic-user to summon Shades. The last time John had seen a fully formed Shade had been in Afghanistan, and it had been twilight-dark.

Then the man took a step forward, head tilting in a reptilian manner, and John’s blood went cold.

_Dragon_.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here,” the man continued – no, not man. Dragon in human form. Dragons were the rarest and most revered of the magical creatures that shared this world with humans, and humans feared them enough to lock them down into human forms if they could. John had heard stories, had been friends with someone who’d seen one who’d been forcibly locked into a human form.

“An explanation would be nice,” John replied casually, taking a half step back from the jeweled lamp he’d been admiring before. The luxury made sense, now, and he didn’t want to get between a dragon and its possessions. That was a bad decision all around.

The man studied him a moment more before a smile spread across his face. “You’ve figured out what I am, haven’t you?”

“Dragon,” John replied, and he wondered if he wasn’t supposed to know that. Maybe he just sealed his demise by speaking it aloud.

With a chuckle, the man inclined his head ever so slightly. “I have a proposition for you, Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Magical Containment Division.”

*

_“This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot.”_

*

Arguably, the story began a bit later, but there was something to be said for the argument that the story really began when John exited the building and saw the black car still waiting outside. John got in, frowning at the glow of magic surrounding his grocery bags.

“Harmless cold spell, compliments of my employer,” the woman said before he could say anything at all. John debated saying something anyway, but figured it wasn’t worth it.

Apparently, this man – Mycroft, of the Holm Clan – had a younger brother who had taken human form, like Mycroft himself. Only someone had caught out his brother’s true nature, but instead of revealing the younger dragon, bound the dragon to human form. John was offered a large sum of money to play bodyguard for the now weakened dragon while Mycroft tracked down the sorcerer who had cast such an intricate and complicated spell. He would have to live with the younger brother and he couldn’t alert anyone to the fact that he _was_ a bodyguard. Mycroft didn’t want the sorcerer to get cagey and disappear. Sooner or later, the sorcerer would come forward, because humans only ever locked dragons in human shape in order to control their magic.

_“Couldn’t you just search the registry?” John had asked – the English government kept strict regulations over magic users, not like other countries (such as the States, with their National Magical Association who blocked regulation and laws every time someone turned around)._

_“I have. Multiple times. Both the English Secret Registry and the United Otherworld Registry.”_

John wasn’t certain what to say. Wasn’t sure whether to accept the job. Mycroft had given him two days to think on it, and while John certainly could use the income (with the weakness in his left hand, he couldn’t be a surgeon, and London was bloody expensive) he wasn’t sure if he was up to being a ‘bodyguard’ even if he had extensive experience with magical catastrophes and putting people back together from said catastrophes. As much as he was a good shot, and a damned good soldier, he was a doctor first and foremost.

After a moment’s consideration, he turned to the woman and said, “Any chance we can stop by the younger brother’s house, first? I’d like to introduce myself. See if he’s really in need of this or not.”

The nameless woman hesitated before saying slowly, “If you’re… sure.”

John raised an eyebrow at her. “Is it not something we should be doing?” he asked.

He received no answer, and he frowned at the woman – who ignored him totally. Minutes later, he huffed and asked, “May I at least know your name?”

Her lips curved into a secret smile. “Anthea,” she responded.

‘Anthea’ was a common magical name that witches and sorceresses took on when their power or specialties followed the path of the Greek goddess Hera – like ‘Zeno’ or ‘Xeno’, a common enough magical name that many wizards and sorcerers took on when their magics took on characteristics of the Greek god Zeus. John twisted his lips in a reluctant smile. No one willingly gave out their name anymore to just anyone, magic users more than most. It was too easy to cast spells if you had enough power to waste and the full name of your target.

Plus, magic-users loved to be bloody mysterious.

The black car pulled up outside a fairly solid and respectable looking building; no fanciness like the other one. Perhaps this dragon was still too young to appreciate luxury? Or perhaps this dragon had another place, larger, only it was crafted for a dragon and not for a human, and so the younger brother was relegated to this flat.

“221B,” Anthea said easily, and when nothing else was forthcoming, John got out of the car and paused, gripping the cane tight for a minute before forcing his breath out in a sharp exhalation. Right. 221B, probably the number of the flat. He’d just have to have a believable reason for being there in the first place.

When he knocked on the front door, it swung open and there was an elderly lady standing there, wearing a pink sweater and looking ecstatic.

“Um. Hi?” John began, but that was as far as he got before the woman was ushering him into the house.

“I told that Sherlock he’d need a flat-mate, but I didn’t realize he’d put an advert out so quickly! Go right up, dearie!”

John blinked, looking as she disappeared into the flat labeled 221A, and ignored the door down the hall that read 221C. There were narrow stairs that led up to a door, and with a mental shrug began the laborious struggle to get up the stairs without banging his artificial limb and while carrying his cane.

On the landing, he knocked hesitantly – there were faint violin chords erratically sounding and then disappearing, as if someone was turning on the radio and then turning it off before much of the violin played.

When no one responded to the knock, he debated just leaving. Obviously, the younger brother – Sherlock, that woman had said? – was busy. Still, John didn’t want to go home and make a decision without at least knowing a little bit about what he was getting into. Mycroft had been very brief, glossing over most details, merely stating that his little brother needed a flat-mate to bodyguard him from whoever the sorcerer was that locked him in this state, and that his little brother collected unusual things instead of the normal gold or silver or jewels.

“Enter,” drawled a low voice.

Cautiously, John opened the door and stepped into – a mess. Yes, he’d say that the room was a mess.

Clothes and books were scattered or draped or dropped about the floor. Papers stacked up on one desk, on a low coffee table, on one of the two armchairs in front of a fireplace. On the mantle sat a skull – John tried not to think about that, or the possibility that the younger brother was the cause of that – as well as various other knickknacks. On the wall above the mantelpiece, to the side of a few bookshelves, papers were pinned against the wall with thumbtacks, strings connecting the papers this way and that way to create a spider’s web of red and green and blue and yellow scrawling over the wall.

On the couch, behind the coffee table and practically behind the door when it opened, so John didn’t see him at first, lounged a lanky male, perhaps a few years younger than himself, dressed in nothing more than a silk dressing gown and white pants, feet bare as they kicked at the ceiling and tousled mop of curly black hair squished against the floor. On his belly rested a violin and bow.

John blinked. “Is there any reason you’ve got your feet up there and your head down there?” he asked curiously.

Black eyes opened and glowered up at John, and then the man was rolling, with preternaturally inhuman grace and speed, to one side and popped up on his feet, setting the violin on the table. “Mycroft’s meddling again. I told him I can handle it, your services aren’t needed, thank you, I already have a nanny.”

Frowning, John shook his head slowly. “I’m not here to be your nanny.”

“Oh, yes you are.” The man cocked his head in a distinctly reptilian gesture and a smirk curled the corner of his mouth. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John sighed in relief. “Oh good. I was beginning to think your brother hadn’t informed you I was coming.”

“He hasn’t. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

That made John pause, and for a long moment he simply stared in confusion at the man before him before saying slowly, “If he didn’t inform you—”

“It’s simple, really. Just as it’s just as obviously clear you live alone, though you have relatives in the city. You’ve not watched your weight since you’ve got back from your military service, yet you’ve still managed to lose weight. Not slept well, most likely, and looking for a job – too overqualified, isn’t that what they’re saying?”

John stared at the man for a long moment before laughing slightly.

“Now, then, you have a good measure of my character, and you realize this is—”

“Absolutely brilliant,” John finished, chuckling.

The man hesitated. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ll have to explain all that, but that – that was fantastic!” John put out his hand to the man. “John Watson, former Captain.”

The younger man blinked, taken aback, and hesitantly shook John’s offered hand. “Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective.”

“Your brother pretty much kidnapped me off the street and presented me with your problem. He didn’t quite use the word ‘nanny,’ however—”

“Enemy,” Sherlock corrected John. “Never let him fool you; he is my enemy. And you are to be his spy, the person who trails behind me and nags at me and I would save you a lot of trouble by simply explaining that you ought not take the job.”

John smiled slightly. “How much is rent here?”

“This is not your ideal situation,” Sherlock repeated.

“With all due respect, Mr. Holmes,” John said frankly, “that’s my decision to make.”

*

_“Sir Boast-a-lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the Round Table.”_

*

Anthea looked up as he entered the car, and either she was letting him see the worry or he was getting better at reading her, but she looked wary when she asked, “Well?”

“I think I’ll take it,” John murmured contemplatively.

*

_“But Sir Boast-a-lot had a secret.”_

*

Moving into the flat was a problem in and of itself. Sherlock had his experiments and papers, books and effects, strewn all over. The second bedroom up the stairs was dusty, but generally empty of most of Sherlock’s items (there were quite a few questionable books and a few petri dishes of mold carried out) so it didn’t take long to settle John upstairs. Sherlock watched him through narrowed eyes, grumbling and grunting and generally being as uncooperative as possible. Sherlock quite clearly made his point over and over that he didn’t need a nanny, that John’s presence was unnecessary, and finally, in the midst of trying to shift notebooks from one small table to a bookcase, John couldn’t stand the sniping any longer.

“Perhaps, Sherlock, if you didn’t act like a child, you wouldn’t force everyone to become your caretakers,” he remarked dryly.

He was treated to two hours of silence, which was both a blessing and annoyance. When he finally managed to put some order to the flat, it was late at night and John was hungry. Opening the fridge was not, in any way, something he had expected. For a minute, he just stared at the feet sitting beside a cup of toe bits, and then he closed the fridge. Taking a deep breath in, he let it out. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, and perhaps he would feel more charitable towards Sherlock. Really, if Sherlock had wanted to scare him off, all he needed to do was open the fridge and shove John’s face inside.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, coming into the front room to find Sherlock had migrated from flopped in front of the fireplace to flinging pencils at the fireplace from across the room, from his sprawled position on the couch. “Sherlock? Have you eaten?”

“I never eat. Slows my mind down.”

“You are a magical creature that has to deal with a human metabolism, you will eat,” John said in exasperation. “No bloody wonder you call the job a ‘nanny.’ I’ll order takeout.”

There was a vibration from underneath the desk, and Sherlock shot off of the couch and scrabbled through papers and office supplies to come up with his phone. “A case!”

John blinked. “A what?”

*

_“Sir Boast-a-lot was only playing at being human. And while the other knights didn’t know that, they knew something was wrong. And that wrongness began to spread like a shadow over their hearts.”_

*

Which was how he found himself standing in the cold, trying not to chatter his teeth off. His leg ached something fierce, and he understood more than anything why Anthea had seemed surprised John had made up his mind so quickly.

Still… he’d never felt so alive, so invigorated, from the idea that there was a ‘case.’ Because anything – _anything_ – that would excite a dragon to this level had to be exciting, and exciting was everything John was _not_.

“Who are _you_?”

John turned around to see a woman, curly hair up in a high ponytail. Interwoven into the curls were beads and ribbons, each glowing with their own spell. An offensive witch, then, perhaps even a Battle witch in training. He smiled slightly and offered his hand. “My name’s John Watson, and I—”

“Obviously you mistook my question as actually sincere,” she interrupted cuttingly, looking him up and down disdainfully before saying, “You aren’t needed here. Move along; police business.”

“Ah,” John said, now aware of the problem. “I don’t mean to interfere, but I was asked here by Holmes? He’s right over there.”

Indeed, Sherlock had swirled into clothes faster than John would have thought possible given his state of undress and dashed out of the flat, John struggling to keep up with cane and artificial limb, cursing the fact that not only did Mycroft fail to mention how stubborn his younger brother was, but that he actually enjoyed the whirlwind that was Sherlock.

Clearly, his time in the army had made him insane.

At the moment, Sherlock was standing in front of an old apartment building, speaking with an elder gentleman who seemed very disgruntled at Sherlock in general. John hadn’t known what to do when he’d seen the glowing police wards, and so had waited on one side while Sherlock had just strode across the yellow lines and made his way over to the man in charge.

“What are you doing hanging out with that freak?” she asked.

He frowned and looked at her nametag. “I’m sorry – Donovan, is it? I’m sorry, I fail to see why I need to explain myself to you in regards to Sherlock. And I sincerely doubt that you’re supposed to be using such language to describe any civilian.”

“He’s not a civilian,” she sneered disdainfully.

John blinked in surprise. He hadn’t thought Sherlock would flaunt his supernatural status, especially considering how rare dragons were, but then again, that sorcerer had to have found out somehow. “Well, alright, I’ll give you that—” he began.

“He’s a bloody menace. I tell you, one day it’ll be him what’s providing the bodies, don’t think he won’t. He enjoys his puzzles all too much and lords it over the rest of us,” she finished viciously.

Narrowing his eyes at her, John said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to be terribly blunt, Office Donovan; just what do you think he is?”

“With him and you don’t even know? He’s a bloody practitioner, is what he is. Never a practitioner that wasn’t wrong in the head in some ways.”

“Watson!”

John turned to look at Sherlock striding self-importantly into the house behind the elder officer. With a soft sigh, he looked back at Donovan and smiled a little. “Well, if you’re right, then I would think about insulting him too loudly; after all, no one knows what practitioners might do to Battle witches.”

She stared at him with a mixture of undisguised curiosity and fury, even as he crossed the yellow wards. He did so carefully, of course; as much as he was trained in his powers as a Null, small leakages could cause wards to short out and die. Around the magical elements of society, he had to be very careful with touching, observing, or even passing them by.

He hurried his steps once over the wards, entering the forbidding doors and then glowered at the stairs that greeted him. With a sigh, he began to clamber up them, feeling keenly the extra weight of the metal-and-plastic limb, the sharp pull of his shoulder as he twisted to the side to let other police officers down the narrow staircase.

When he reached the top, Sherlock was currently engaged with another man, younger, while the older man looked on. John took the respite thankfully and watched the exchange.

“I don’t want him on my crime scene, Lestrade, I don’t care if he sold his soul to the devil or not!”

“The devil is a fictional creation of superstitious minds; I deal with _fact_.” Sherlock sounded bored, but John had spent what seemed like a lifetime in Iraq trying to deal with hedge-witches and warlocks who would create magical bombs. He may have been a doctor, tasked specifically with nullifying curses and then working on healing the human flesh by means of med-kits without nullifying _those_ , but he’d been in the field enough to have both learned to judge a person’s intentions by their body language and what nasty surprises could appear from people who previously had been relaxed and at ease. Sherlock was tense and upset.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said cordially, and the three turned to look at him. Before he could say anything more, the combative young man pointed a finger at John and said imperiously, “What the hell do you think you’re doing up here? Who let you pass the police wards?”

But John had moved the minute that the man had pointed a finger, sidestepping and dropping a hand to his side for a gun he had left at the flat, heart pounding. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, even as the elder man stepped in with an exasperated growl, “This is Dr. John Watson.” He paused, looking over John, and John knew he didn’t strike an impressive figure; he was short, completely ordinary looking, hair beginning to thin, and the cane certainly detracted from any authority he might have had otherwise. “He is Sherlock’s… colleague.”

John blinked at the term. He didn’t know where the title had come from, but he sincerely doubted he was Sherlock’s ‘colleague’. Perhaps the elder man – Lestrade? – had assumed things?

“Colleague? Since when do you work with anyone?” the younger man sneered, and Sherlock strode past the two men into the door behind them.

“Ah, yes, thank you,” John said slowly, making his way to follow Sherlock. “I’m really just here to help him as he needs.”

“He introduced you as a medical expert.” The elder man walked forward, and John noticed the small runes embedded in the piping on the official coat, runes for protection and good health. The badge said ‘detective inspector’ and the nametag labeled this man as ‘G. Lestrade,’ so John inclined his head in respect.

“I didn’t know it would cause such trouble to come, otherwise I would have declined Sherlock’s offer,” John said easily, the lie rolling off his tongue. If Sherlock hadn’t given him a derogative title (he certainly seemed fond of the term ‘nanny’) he wasn’t going to dissuade these men from that perception.

Lestrade sighed, but the younger man didn’t want to let this go. He stalked up to John, eyes narrowed and shoulders squared. John was reminded of a pup pretending at being a wolf. “You’re a common civilian, and I’d thank you not to encourage that demonspawn’s delusions that we actually need him on the scene!”

That made John curious, and he asked, “If you didn’t need him, why call him in?”

Lestrade chuckled and patted John on the shoulder. “We need him, Anderson, and you know it; your magical inquiries did all that they could. Go fill out your report and walk the police wards with Donovan, will you?”

Glowering in anger, the younger man – Anderson – left in a huff. John watched him go, even as Sherlock called out from in the room, “John, I need you in here!”

John turned back to the door, and then tilted his head in question to Lestrade.

“Might as well. I don’t know why he’d think another medical expert would make much difference, though.”

Not knowing how to respond to that, John simply entered the room, being careful not to step on any stray magical traces left from the murder. Not that he could sense them, really, but in general he stayed away from the walls and walked very carefully over to where a woman, dressed in all pink, lay face-down in the middle of the empty apartment. Sherlock was crouched over the body, and it was here that John could really see the resemblance, see the lizard-like regard as Sherlock tilted his head this way and that, murmuring under his breath.

Then Sherlock’s head snapped up, and his eyes seemed to challenge John as he leaned back on his heels. “Well, what do you have to say about this?”

Perhaps Sherlock just wanted to prove to John that John couldn’t keep up. That could be the only explanation for it, really. Why would Sherlock think John knew anything about forensics? John held that gaze a moment before turning to Lestrade, who held out a pair of rubber gloves thoughtfully.

John laid the cane down carefully and slipped the gloves on before bending over and tilting the woman’s head back. He frowned and lifted up her lip.

“Shape-changer,” he murmured under his breath. “Normally unusually hard to kill. No marks of violence, however. Nothing to prove that she fought, for any reason. Slight crusted residue around the lips; a magical poison of some kind, most likely. I’d be unable to identify it right here.”

“Is that it?” Sherlock asked imperiously.

John rocked back onto his own heels and held Sherlock’s arrogant gaze with his own placid one. “I never claimed to be an expert in this, Sherlock. Someone else did that for me.”

They stared at one another before Lestrade cleared his throat. Finally, Sherlock looked away from John to scowl at Lestrade. “What do you want? Where are her possessions? I need more data than this to catch your killer,” he demanded.

That seemed to throw Lestrade off his stride a moment, and he said in confusion, “Possessions? What—no, Sherlock, there was nothing. But if Dr. Watson’s not an expert, Sherlock, I have to ask why—”

Sherlock interrupted him, popping up off the floor and folding his arms stubbornly. “Of course there’s possessions; don’t treat me like an idiot, Lestrade, I’m not Anderson. If you’re going to hamper my process you’ll have to deal with substandard results. Right now we have just enough to go on, and I don’t want to waste more time and let the trail get cold—”

“Excuse me, but what have we got?” John asked from the floor.

Lestrade and Sherlock both turned to stare at them, and John flushed a little but gestured at the body. “You said we have just enough to go on, but I don’t have anything at all, Sherlock,” John elaborated.

With an indignant huff, Sherlock gestured at the body. “Surely it’s there in plain view.”

A moment passed silently, and then Lestrade said grudgingly, “No, it’s not Sherlock.”

“I’d like to know what you’re talking about,” John repeated.

Sherlock blinked at John, and then let out another impatient huff before striding back over to the body, squatting down. “It’s obvious, can’t you see? New suit, everything color coordinated, manicure – a good one, most likely pricey – underneath the collar a bit damp but otherwise dry, pointed ears, the fangs John noticed – this is Aleiya Rothwod, public services representative for the English Secret Registry.”

John breathed out a sigh, shaking his head in awe. “Brilliant,” he murmured.

Sherlock slanted him an odd look, but then Lestrade cleared his throat importantly. “What does that _mean_ , though?” Lestrade demanded.

Growling, Sherlock reached onto her finger and pulled off a ring. “Look, it’s clean on the inside, dreadfully tarnished on the outside. Who regularly polishes the inside of a ring? Someone who regularly removes it. She’s not someone who wants others to know she’s married; most likely she’s carrying on an affair, or affairs plural – hard to know without further information – and even then, a single affair is enough to ruin her in the eyes of the public, but no one knew. Clever woman, then, who managed to keep it from the press; most likely because she has absolute mastery over her body and over how others perceive her – the suit isn’t just a new suit, it’s akin to battle armor, every piece color-coordinated and planned out. Nails are immaculate on one hand, but scratched up on the other – letters are scratched into the floor, if you’ll look closely.”

“She’s spelling out a curse, of course.”

John turned to look at the door, along with Lestrade. Sherlock didn’t even stir to see Anderson lounging in the doorway.

“If you know something about spells, ‘Rashet’ is the curse for self-righteous wrath. Someone upset her, and she killed herself and used the death-magic to fuel the curse. We just need to find the poor bugger what’s been cursed and cleanse him of it.”

Heaving a put-upon sigh, Sherlock stood up, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and walked to the door. “As brilliant as usual, Anderson,” he sighed. “You continuously amaze me with the depths of your unintelligence.”

He closed the door in Anderson’s face and turned on his heel to reface the room.

“That wasn’t very nice,” John remarked, but Lestrade either was used to it or didn’t care, because he gestured imperiously at the scratched writing. “Well, why not ‘Rashet’?”

“Because that’s a curse and this is no witch you’re dealing with, but a shape-changer, as John pointed out. Shape-changers can’t cast magic, and the fact that you would overlook that magical fact indicates your team is as blind as you are.” Sherlock huffed, and John felt mildly uncomfortable; he’d known that she was a shape-changer, of course, but he hadn’t known shape-changers were magically inept. Sherlock continued, oblivious to John, “In fact, if you knew anything about the late Mrs. Rothwod, you’d know shape-changer culture and a common female name for shape-changers is ‘Rashel,’ a variation of the human name Rachel. In her dying moments, why would she scratch out a curse that would have no effect? No, she was clever, she had to be, and would scratch out something that was important to her. A woman like this, in the public services field and a representative to boot, her entire life would be on her phone or laptop – I’ll go with phone, because phones have become much easier to carry around on one’s person than a laptop and from the theoretical size and weight of her suitcase, it would have taken up more room than she could afford if she was attending a reception. That indicates that something on her phone is important enough that she would leave the key to unlocking it beside her in her dying moments; perhaps pictures of her killer, or an audio-recording.”

“Fantastic!” John exclaimed, standing up and leaning on the cane, but then a question occurred to him. He asked curiously, “You keep saying ‘killer’ – yet there’s no struggle, and she’s obviously ingested poison. How would someone force her to eat something poisonous, and yet she gave in without a fight? Shape-changers – any supernatural creature that can change form – are much stronger than normal. She would have been able to do something.”

“And that’s where the phone comes in, or perhaps her case if in fact it is a laptop password, but in any case—” Sherlock turned to Lestrade, who’d stared at the back of the woman’s pale blond head, “—I can’t do _anything_ until you stop withholding evidence from me!”

Lestrade put his hands on his hips. “And what makes you think she had a case?”

With a frustrated growl, Sherlock pointed jerkily to the back of the woman’s stocking-clad legs. “There is a spatter pattern there, from relatively small wheels, a spatter pattern that could only happen if she had been dragging along behind her a rolling suitcase. The wheels kick up dirt and mud, but not a lot otherwise I would suspect – or at least _hope_ – you would have noticed it by now, but did it really not seem odd that the back of one stocking has spotted? One can guess the relative size and weight of the case by simple virtue that the spots are very narrow, very closely grouped, and not higher than mid-calf. Now, if you please, stop _stalling_ and let me view her possessions!”

That seemed to pull the wind out of Lestrade’s sails, and he heaved a tired sigh. “I’m not stalling, and I’m not refusing you anything. There was nothing on her, Holmes.”

Sherlock stopped his short, sharp motions and peered carefully at Lestrade. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“You heard me. There was nothing, no case, no phone, nothing but what you see here. No reason at all for one of the most highly acclaimed representatives to appear in this condemned building.”

It was as if a light had been turned on in Sherlock’s face, eyes brightening and body coming to attention like a hound on a sense, and John was struck with a sense of wonder.

“Ah, clever, _clever_ girl! This has become far more interesting!” Sherlock dashed out of the room and was halfway down the stairwell before John could make it to the top of the stairs. “Tell every one of your officers to look for it! It must be around here somewhere!”

“Look for _what_?” Lestrade called back, leaning over the railing.

“Pink!” Sherlock bellowed back, and dashed down the rest of the stairs.

Lestrade leaned back with an exasperated growl, and John stared mournfully at the staircase. Before he could move to make his way down the stairs himself, Lestrade put out his hand. “Detective Greg Lestrade of the Scotland Yard,” he said.

Taking Lestrade’s hand, John shook it. “Doctor John Watson,” he replied, smiling faintly. “I apologize for – all that.”

“No, no, no need. I’ve known him a long while; he’s always like that. What’s more interesting is _you_ , Doctor. Sherlock doesn’t just allow people to tag along, and he’s never needed a medical expert before.”

John laughed weakly and shook his head. “I’m far from an expert,” he demurred.

“Which is why your presence – no offense – is so very strange.” Lestrade eyed him. “Why are you with him again? You’re from the army, I know it. No one else would’ve gotten so cagey if they were pointed at.”

With a sigh, John rubbed the back of his neck and decided to go for the straightforward answer, without revealing Sherlock’s race or Mycroft’s hiring process. “I was in the army, yeah. Invalided home, you see. But London’s a bloody awful expensive city, and so I was looking for a way to save money. He was looking for a flatmate, and I needed a cheaper place to stay. Doctor I may have been, but now, what with the injury…” He trailed off, smiling wryly. “Well, I can’t practice the way I used to.”

“And he allowed you into that mess of his flat?” Lestrade said, eyebrow raised. “You something interesting? A dragon, perhaps? Always seemed like a man to want to try his luck against a dragon, is Sherlock.”

John tried not to laugh at the irony, and with the straightest face he could muster, shook his head in the negative. “Just a Null, Detective Inspector. Just a Null who’s trying to fit back into civilian life.”

Lestrade eyed him a moment suspiciously, and then shrugged his shoulders and gestured to the stairs. “Well, anyone who can encourage Sherlock to explain himself as easily as you do makes my life ten times easier.”

*

_“Soon, the other knights grew tired of Sir Boast-a-lot’s stories, about how brave he was and how clever he was and how many dragons he’d seen.”_

*

“You just left me there, Sherlock.”

“I was searching for evidence. Do you have your mobile on you?”

John glared at the man who was perched like a hawk on the armchair to the right of the fireplace. “You just _left_ me there. I’m supposed to be your _bodyguard_.” Still, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile

“If you can’t keep up, then maybe you ought to go back to whatever tiny flat you were living in. Or swallow your pride and move in with your brother; his drinking can’t really bother you all that much, can it?” Sherlock popped off the armchair and moved to the small table, one of the chairs pulled out and—

John stared. “Sherlock – where did you get that case?”

“Found it in a bin nearby. Took me a while to go digging for it. Got your mobile out? Alright, I want you to text someone for me.”

Confused, John obeyed the instructions and wrote out the text laboriously.

“Very good.” Sherlock tossed himself onto the couch and flung his arms out dramatically to his sides.

“How did you know about the drinking? How did you know – anything? You haven’t explained that yet. Mycroft _must_ have told you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be dull. I didn’t need to be informed; not like you. You probably wouldn’t have ever known I was a dragon had not Mycroft informed you. While I, I can tell about your military history from your bearing, your weight from the slight stains on your cuff and the bagginess of your attire, your relatives by your living choice, your over-qualification by your demeanor – doctor or engineer? One or the other, in any case – I know about the drinking, the brother, the financial problems, the therapist, the psychosomatic limp – I know everything I need to know about you from one glance and you must wonder why I need protection. The answer is quite simply, _I don’t_. Mycroft worries too much, and I’ve been fine, I will continue to be fine, and I don’t need your help.” Pushing himself to his feet, Sherlock grabbed his coat and John’s own. “Now, come along. We’re going to go meet our murderer.”

“What?” John asked, thrown by the volley of words and the abrupt change of topic. “Sherlock, what?”

*

_“And soon, they began to wonder…”_

*

“You have to explain all that to me,” John asked, cutting into the chicken breast and dipping it into the alfredo sauce of the pasta.

“I have to?” Sherlock repeated.

John looked up at Sherlock and quirked a smile. “No, you don’t. But I’m about dying of curiosity. Broccoli?”

“I don’t eat while I’m on a case. Slows me down,” Sherlock said dismissively.

John rolled his eyes and took a bite of his food. When he looked up, Sherlock was staring at him, fascinated.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” Sherlock said quietly, but there was something close to wonder there. “Nothing at all. Merely curious. You are a Null, that much is clear. Yet you don’t seem to be very much like other Nulls.”

John huffed a small laugh. “If I was like other Nulls, I doubt the military would have had much use for me beyond my doctoring skills.”

They sat in the window of Angelo’s, John eating pasta, Sherlock’s low drawl explaining his deductions (he’d been wrong on two counts, in the end; John had a sister, not a brother, and he hadn’t needed Mycroft to tell him that he was a dragon – he’d seen a dragon in human form in Afghanistan and knew the signs), and later on they ran after a cab on foot, the wind whistling past John as he tried to keep up with Sherlock’s quick turns and dashes, the reptilian grace that put John to shame.

And when they came to a stop inside the hallway of 221 Baker Street, laughing and giggling like loons, Sherlock pointed out that John had moved as if the artificial limb had been a part of him, that John had run and kept up as if it was a battlefield.

John felt as if he’d finally come home.

*

_“Are Sir Boast-a-lot’s stories even true?”_

*

John had come to expect the deductions made from the most insignificant observations. He never asked once whether Sherlock was sure, never challenged Sherlock that he told a lie, and this new treatment made Sherlock want to show off more.

“‘Two trips around the world this month’ – you didn’t ask his secretary. You said that just to irritate him. How did you know?”

Sherlock smiled to himself and began his explanation for the bodyguard he’d come to see as a friend.

*

_“So one of the knights went to King Arthur and said…”_

*

“Don’t make people into heroes, John.” Sherlock paused, and stared at John – John, who’d been in Afghanistan, who couldn’t bear to see people hurt. Who felt so deeply and so quickly and expected Sherlock, a creature greater than he could imagine, to feel the same way. Sherlock couldn’t spare the emotion that humans could, not for a bomber he needed to catch. “Heroes don’t exist. And if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”

*

_“‘I don’t belieeeve Sir Boast-a-lot’s stories.’”_

*

Sitting in front of the fire, John brought him tea and then sat down opposite him. “Do you believe that that was the sorcerer, then?” he asked, voice quiet and subdued.

“It is his spell,” Sherlock responded, just as quietly. He supposed, had Lestrade been called – had it really been a bomb, had John really been behind it all – Lestrade’s team would have foisted another orange blanket on him. As it was, he thought that perhaps he needed a blanket.

The thought was fleeting, however.

“Then that’s the sorcerer! Why would he seek you out?”

“He didn’t feel like a sorcerer,” Sherlock murmured.

Something warm and heavy draped over his shoulders and Sherlock blinked, looked up to see that John had dragged the thick blanket from the couch over to Sherlock and tucked it around Sherlock’s shoulders. He stared for a moment, which gave John time to sit down in the armchair opposite him and meet his gaze worriedly. “What was he, then? Maybe that’s why your brother can’t find him – he’s looking in the wrong place.”

For a long moment, Sherlock just stared at John, until John was frowning worriedly and reaching over to tentatively touch Sherlock’s knee. “Sherlock?”

“I don’t know what he is. I – his magic is strange. Corrupted, in a way.”

John’s fingers tightened slightly against Sherlock’s trousers. “Demonic?”

“No, he hasn’t been dabbling in the Darker Magics. No, I can’t… say for certain.”

There was a long moment, and then John patted Sherlock’s knee. “Get some rest. Let me tell Mycroft what happened. He may want me to stop, since I’ve proven I can’t keep myself out of your enemy’s hands.”

When John stood up, Sherlock gripped at the hem of John’s shirt. “When you grabbed onto his back – were you a Null?”

John went very still. “I’m always a Null, Sherlock.”

“Don’t play stupid with me, not here, not now.”

The words were a snarl, and reluctantly, John sat back down and rubbed his forehead. “If you mean, had I opened up my shields and was I attempting to undo his wards and shields by Nullifying them? Yes. You saw how that went. He had a sniper on the second floor, you saw.”

“What is it like, to Nullify? To take away someone’s magic, someone’s very essence?”

John swallowed hard, and stood up. “Terrifying,” he murmured, and then he was gone.

Later that day, Sherlock got a text from Mycroft. Apparently, John had insisted on remaining with Sherlock, even if Mycroft put another bodyguard on Sherlock.

_Congratulations,_ the last text read. _You have managed to earn his loyalty. How, I have no idea. –M oH_

Sherlock didn’t reply. And he didn’t quite understand the sentiment that led him to lock the message and keep it from ever being deleted.

*

_“‘He’s just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good.’”_

*

“Is that the first time you saw someone die?”

Sherlock whirled away from John, strode into the kitchen, unable to explain why he was so jittery. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. I’ve seen death in countless forms, most much more gruesome and premeditated than that – carelessness.”

“Don’t lie; it doesn’t become you. And it’s different, when you watch someone die in front of you.”

John was being too understanding, and Sherlock turned on him, glared and sneered. “Death is death, and only those with base sentimentality have difficulty seeing past that.”

With a soft sigh, John put his tea cup in the fridge (on the shelf specifically designed for food, above the bits of fingers and palms Sherlock had on the lower shelf) and set Sherlock’s tea on the counter. “Well, then. I suppose so.”

Sherlock watched John leave the room.

*

_“And then… oh, and then…”_

*

“Why is it always the _hat_ photograph?”

John shook his head at the paper, face mournful. “ _Bachelor_ John Watson,” he read off the print.

Sherlock ignored him. “What kind of hat is it, anyway?”

“‘Bachelor.’ Just what the hell are they implying?” John grumbled and continued to scan down the page, the lines of worry on his brow more pronounced. They always were, nowadays, and Sherlock’s attempts to distract John from his worry weren’t working.

“Is it a cap?” Sherlock asked insistently, then flipped it a bit. “Why’s got two fronts? What do you humans do with such a ridiculous looking bit of cloth?”

That seemed to drag John’s attention to him, but only momentarily. “It’s a deerstalker, Sherlock.” Then he shook his head. “‘Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson.’ Sherlock, this is not good at all.”

“How do you stalk a deer with a _hat_?”

“We need to be more careful, Sherlock!”

Sherlock pushed on, trying to drag John’s attention away, because he’d almost got Moriarty figured out, almost understood the man’s fascination, the man’s nature, and he needed John to not be thinking about it. “It’s got flaps, _ear_ flaps, John! And what could you possibly mean, more careful? If we were any more careful you’d keep me closeted away in the flat all the time.”

“That’s an exaggeration, and you know it,” John huffed, but there was a reluctant smile curling around his mouth as he said, “And I mean you’re not exactly a private consulting detective anymore. You’re this far from famous, and all it will do is draw Moriarty back to you.”

“It’ll pass. The press will forget. They always do – humans are notorious for their short-term memories.”

John rubbed the back of his neck. “It better pass. If the press stays this close on you – you won’t just have to worry about Moriarty, anymore. The press will turn, Sherlock. They always do.”

This was a new development, one Sherlock hadn’t foreseen, and it piqued his interest. “It really bothers you?” he asked, voice slow as he put into words the feeling he was getting from John.

That seemed to take John aback, and the tips of his ears flushed light pink. “What?” he asked.

“What people say,” Sherlock clarified.

After a moment, John sighed. “Yes.”

“About _me_.” Sherlock shook his head a little and hopped onto the armchair. “I don’t understand; why would it upset _you_?”

For a long moment, John just looked at him, and then he sighed. “Low profile, Sherlock. Until this blows over, we _both_ need to keep a low profile.”

*

_“…The king began to wonder. But that wasn’t the end of Sir Boast-a-lot’s problem. No. No, that wasn’t the Final Problem.”_

*

Sherlock stared down at the street, at the cars, and wondered whether John, faithful John, would stay away long enough for this to play out. Where Moriarty had picked for the final act of this little song and dance.

_“The end,”_ Moriarty whispered into his ear.

“So what’s the final problem, then?” Sherlock asked quietly, hands clasped behind his back.

Moriarty pulled back with a moue of discontent. “Surely you know, Sherlock,” he said, letting his tongue hit the consonants of Sherlock’s name with a clicking sound. “ _The_ Final Problem. The end result.” He glanced down the side of the building. “You knew it would end like this.”

“End?” Sherlock said slowly, letting the word roll over his tongue. “Why should I? When I can prove you’ve created a false identity. All it will take,” he stopped, turned around and stepped off the ledge, advanced on Moriarty. “Is just one spell. I’ll rip off that human façade and no one will be able to see you for anything but what you are.”

“No one will believe you,” Moriarty sighed. “God, Sherlock, you’re just as boring as the ordinary people, aren’t you? Just as disappointing. No one will believe the spell. Everyone will think you’ve just forced an illusion on me.”

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment. “Because why would a dragon…”

“Exactly, there you go!” Moriarty chortled, and he took two steps back and spread his arms grandly. “Why would a dragon lock another dragon in human form?”

“Because you’re insane,” Sherlock sneered disdainfully.

Moriarty paused, lifting one eyebrow. “You’re just getting that now? But no, you _chose_ a human form. Do you remember? You put it on like it was a favorite mask, like it was something to _explore_. When there were others, like myself, locked inside, unable to break free.”

“You can access dragon magics, though, can you not? I don’t even have that at my disposal,” Sherlock growled.

“No dragon magic in human form, surely even you know that. You’re young for a dragon, but not that young.” Moriarty sighed. “You had such potential. Other dragons lose their mind, you know. Very little around to keep them occupied, keep them sharp. They fall into waste. Like your elder brother, you know. Only he’s not bound, is he? He becomes human to aid the filthy humans and mundanes, keep the rest of us in order. But you can’t control chaos, Sherlock, and that’s what we are, two sides of the same coin. Only you’re on the side of angels, hmm? The side of heroes. You have that perverted creature as your pet human. Does he suck up some of your magic while you sleep? Does he Nullify parts of your soul and suck the magic from the marrow of your bones? I bet he does. Maybe he’s the reason for why you’re so boring. Maybe I ought to punish him.”

“But you won’t,” Sherlock said. “You’ve turned the press on me, you’ve cast into doubt every case I’ve done, you’ve focused on _me_ , not my bodyguard!”

Moriarty chuckled slyly. “I think we both know he’s a bit more than your bodyguard, hmm? Don’t be shy; the human body is so _fascinating_. It is so repugnant, so utterly repulsive, that it’s almost too good to resist. Did you find it that way? The messy, smelly, sticky functions a human has to go through. Dragons don’t have to go through those, do you remember? I’d say of course, as I’ve only locked you down for six months, but you chose to be human much earlier than that. You chose to crawl through their muck, live on their streets, partake in their drugs and vices and you sought about to make yourself the worst human you could just to prove that you could. And now you have no choice at all. Is that what happened? In a human form long enough that you develop _sentiment_?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, and he could see that it frustrated Moriarty. After a few minutes, Moriarty moaned and shook his head. “It’s over, Sherlock. You wanted everything to be so clever, you wanted to show off and make a spectacle of yourself, and you don’t realize that things are so blindingly _simple_. Humans are stupid cattle to be drive forth with a light switch. They will do anything with the right incentive – even let me walk through walls.”

“You paid someone to drop the wards for you.”

Moriarty grinned, a predator’s grin out of place on a human’s body. “No special invisibility spell. Nothing to drop the world to its feet. Just human avarice and a well-thought out plan. Bet you never saw that one coming, eh? Sir _Boast-a-lot_.”

“But why—?”

“No, no, _no_ , Sherlock!” Moriarty raised his hands as if to grab Sherlock’s shoulders, then let them fall. “You were supposed to be better than them. You were supposed to be a dragon who didn’t lose his edge in human form. If I’ve managed it, you could manage it; I’ve been locked down much longer than you! Just kill yourself and be done with it.”

Sherlock stared at Moriarty, and the shorter man sighed.

“Do you need a better incentive? How’s this – your friends will die if you don’t.”

Involuntarily, Sherlock said, “John.”

“Not just John,” Moriarty countered. “Everyone. Three spells, three foci, three victims – three by three, the magical nine, the spell that binds them all together. There’s no stopping it without blood sacrifice. And that’s when—”

“I kill myself,” Sherlock finished quietly. “Complete your story.”

Moriarty grinned, a wild-edged grin. “You’ve gotta admit, it’s a sexy story to be in. The Storyteller and the Dragon, Sherlock of the Holms Clan who thought he could outsmart anyone and ended up outsmarted in the end!”

“I die in disgrace,” Sherlock said softly.

“Well, that’s the point,” Moriarty pointed out. “So. Off you go. Your death is the only thing to break the three on three spell; I’m certainly not going to do it.”

Sherlock turned around, eyes lighting up. “So the spell can be called off without blood sacrifice. There’s a trap, a loophole, and I don’t have to die—”

“You think you can figure it out in time? You think you can find the three different foci in time? You think you could find the correct counterspell to each of the three spells? You’ll never figure it out in time.”

“You could tell me,” Sherlock growled.

Moriarty threw his head back and laughed. “Do you think you can make me? All the King’s horses and the King’s personal dragon couldn’t make me say anything I didn’t want to say. What makes you so special?”

“You said it yourself, I am you. Two sides of the same coin, with the same motivations. I am prepared to do what ordinary people won’t; you want me to shake hands with you in hell?” He leaned forward, teeth bared in a mocking smile. “I shall not disappoint.”

Moriarty shook his head with a sigh. “You’re ordinary. You talk big, but – nah. You’re _ordinary_. You’re on the side of the angels.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, barely an inhalation, a sound, and he leaned forward, eyes burning in his face. “Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, you’re right. But don’t think for one _second_ that I am one of them.”

There was nothing but silence, stretching out between them, and then Moriarty nodded, and he looked – relieved, he looked _thankful_. “No,” he murmured, and his voice was so _happy_. “You’re not. I see. You’re _not_ ordinary. You’re _me_.” He took Sherlock’s hand, clasped it in his own. “Thank you. Sherlock of the Holms Clan, _thank_ you. Bless you, you’re right. As long as I’m alive, you’ll be able to stop the spell – you’ve got a way out.”

The relief only grew, intensified, and then Moriarty smiled a sharp-edged grin, manic and insane. “Good luck with that!”

He pulled out a gun – ordinary way to die, Sherlock thought abstractly – and blew out the back of his head.

Sherlock stared down at the sorcerer who’d started this all. No, not sorcerer – dragon. A dragon, locked in human form, unable to get free, causing chaos because he could, looking for the ultimate game. One he’d found in Sherlock, in Sherlock’s stubborn desire to pretend to be human to learn about the fascinating and confusing creatures that bed like rabbits and took over most of the world from the supernatural races.

A dragon, who’d built a spell to take out the three people Sherlock cared about most in this human realm.

He moved to the edge of the building again and his heart fell in his chest when he saw a taxi pull up and John – strong, brave, faithful John, no longer using his cane, standing upright and tall, dashing towards the door of St. Barts. And Sherlock couldn’t allow that.

He picked up his phone, and called.

 

*

 

_Goodbye, John._

_SHERLOCK!_

 

*

 

Sherlock stood outside the door of 221b Baker Street. He was much thinner than before; he had been locked into human form, after all, and had nearly died. Only the fact that he was a dragon, and had warded himself from accidental death as a human, helped him to survive. Otherwise, he would have died from that fall.

But healing – healing took a long time. It ate up his magical resources, made him as weak as a kitten. And there was no guarantee that Moriarty hadn’t done the same thing. Sherlock needed to find the root of Moriarty’s madness, needed to find the human who had locked Moriarty into human form. Mycroft disagreed with his decision, but then again, Mycroft always disagreed with John’s decisions. That was nothing new.

Now, three years later, he stood here, and he didn’t know what had happened in John’s life since – well. Since. They had shared something, together, something Sherlock had not fully understood because he was too different, too inhuman. But it was something that Sherlock had dearly missed as he had recuperated on Holms land, under the care of the healers.

Quietly, he knocked at the door.

There was a shuffling sound, and a dragging noise – John’s limp had returned, then. The doorknob turned, and John stood there, markedly older, thinner, eyes dry and empty and hollow. They stared at Sherlock without really seeing him for a moment, and then he sighed. “Come in,” he murmured.

Cautiously, Sherlock slunk into the flat and flinched a little as John took extra care not to touch him in any way. Instead, John closed the door and limped back over to his armchair.

Sherlock’s eyes darted about the flat, taking in the well-dusted bookshelves, the military neatness of the flat, the missing items that had once graced the mantelpiece. Clearing his throat, he said softly, “I hope you didn’t throw that skull away. It was very dear to me.”

John choked, and put his head in his hands.

Worried – almost terrified – Sherlock moved over to sit opposite John and nervously tried to keep from fidgeting with the cuffs of his coat. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Three years. Three _bloody_ years and you couldn’t be bothered to tell me? To let me know?!”

Sherlock licked his lips. “There was no guarantee that I would live. It was – very close. Dragons can’t survive death in human forms, after all, and it was only an old spell placed on me by my experimental youth that saved me. I’ve been recuperating, and making sure Moriarty didn’t raise from the dead, either.”

“What are you?” John whispered, but there was wonderment there, and Sherlock allowed himself to hope.

“You’ve always known what I was, you know that.”

John lifted his head, and Sherlock refrained from commenting on the reddened eyes or tear tracks. Instead, he waited until John asked quietly, “Can I see your other form?”

Sherlock licked his lips nervously. The Holms Clan were notoriously small dragons, so logistically speaking, it wouldn’t be a problem. Still, he’d not had any human ever view his dragon form, so he was nervous. Still, he stood up and stepped into the space between their chairs and the coffee table and transformed.

He was a shimmering purple color, four-legged and about as large as a German Shepard or a small pony, wings elegantly curved over his back and teeth sharp within his maw. His tail was whip-like, tipped on the end with a thin membrane like a fish tail to act as a rudder.

John stared at him in unguarded awe, and Sherlock felt himself preen under John’s view, elegant neck curving and delicate claws scraping into the hardwood floor.

That made John laugh, a watery laugh that turned into a sob. Nervous again, Sherlock walked over and laid his head on John’s lap.

He would never leave his Null again.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:
> 
> _“Sherlock is the dragon (can be used metaphorically or literally etc.)”_
> 
> preferred rating(s) is(are) G, T
> 
> angst, hurt/comfort, romance, AU, fairy tales, sci-fi, creepiness, magical realism (anything you like)
> 
> I would like any sexual content to be consensual, character death must be implied, I dislike polygamy and threesomes, I don’t like Dark John.


End file.
